Anecdotes from M
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Anecdotes from M
âââ Untitled
The news hits like a crowbar to the skullâheavy, sickening, cracking something open that shouldnât be touched.
Matt is dead.
Not just dead. Shot. Gunned down like a fucking animal, sprawled out on the pavement in that stupid striped shirt, blood soaking into the fibers like it belonged there. Like the whole world had been waiting for the day Matt would paint the streets red.
Mello canât breathe.
His hands shake, but not in the delicate, trembling way of grief. Itâs violent, a spasm running through his bones like his body itself is rejecting the truth. He grips the wheel, but it feels like gripping the edge of the void.
Matt is dead.
It doesnât feel real. It doesnât feel possible.
Matt, who never took things seriously. Who never looked up from his games unless Mello ripped them out of his hands. Who would lean back in his chair with that stupid smirk always holding a goddamned cigarette. Who never let the world sink its claws too deep because he was always on the surface, floating, untouchable. Until today.
Until the bullets tore through all that careless, infuriating ease and left him as just another corpse on the side of the road.
Melloâs grip tightens on the wheel, fingers locking, blood draining. His breathing is shallow, stomach clenched like his insides are being wrung out. He should have planned better. Should have known this was going to happen. Should haveâshould haveâ
Melloâs lungs collapse under the weight of it.
He shouldâve told Matt to stay back. Shouldâve never let him get involved. Shouldâve done a thousand fucking things differently because Matt wasnât supposed to go first.
Mello always knew heâd die young, but MattâMatt was supposed to outlive him. He was supposed to roll his eyes at Melloâs inevitable self-destruction, supposed to sigh and say, âKnew it.â He was supposed to be the one left standing.
The rage swallows him whole.
Kira. That self-righteous, smug, cowardly bastard. He did this. He signed Mattâs name on a fucking execution order and never even had to look him in the eyes.
Mello is going to kill him.
The thought burns so hot it scorches his insides, turns his blood to lava. Heâs going to rip Kira apart. It wonât be enough. Itâll never be enough. But itâs the only thing left to do.
Melloâs vision blurs. His foot eases off the gas for half a second before he forces it back down.
He canât react, canât stop. He canât fucking stop.
Oh, heâll get his revenge. He has a plan. Itâs already in motion. He has Takada. Heâs got Kiraâs most valuable pawn in his grasp, and soon, Near will know. Kira will know. The world will know. He will fucking feel it.
But none of it matters.
Because Matt is dead.
And what the fuck is he supposed to do with that?
Takada shifts in the back. Her breathing is louder, too loud. He wants to scream at her to shut up, to stop existing, because none of this is about her. Sheâs just another stepping stone, just another goddamn pawn in this rigged, fucked-up game, and Mello is done playing.
He needs Kira to hurt.
Vengeance.
Thatâs all thatâs left.
He yanks the wheel again, turns down an empty street, mind racing too fast to hold onto. The plan is all muscle memory nowâdrive, hide the van, force Kira into play. But itâs all hollow, just movements, just steps in a dance thatâs already lost its rhythm.
Thereâs no future beyond this. He doesnât see it. Canât even imagine what tomorrow is supposed to look like. His mind doesnât stretch that far because it doesnât fucking matter. It never has. Why couldnât he fucking realize that before? His body is just a weapon now, a ticking bomb in Kiraâs path, and heâll go off whether it makes a difference or not. Whether Near wins or loses. Whether Kira suffers or just keeps playing God.
Itâs all the same in the end.
Matt is still dead.
Mello apologizes, but it doesnât change anything. His own death is a footnote, an afterthought. A forgone conclusion. If it happens tonight, fine. If it happens tomorrow, so be it. Itâs not like thereâs anything left to lose.
His heart slams against his ribs.
Too hard.
Too fast.
The pain punches through his chest like a fist. His breath catches, sharp, ragged, like barbed wire unraveling in his lungs. Then, it doesnât come at all. The van swerves. Takada yells something, but itâs distant, muffled, drowned out by the roaring in his skull.
Itâs happening.
Kiraâs got him.
His hands slip from the wheel. His body seizes. The van veersâtoo much, too fast, metal screaming against the asphalt.
In heavy contrast to the rest of Melloâs whole fucking life, the last thing he thinks about isnât Kira. It isnât Near. It isnât about being the best or proving himself or fucking L.
Itâs about Matt.
Matt died like a dog and Mello is following, and itâs all slipping away too fast for any of it to mean anything. He doesnât even have time to think about the memories, to think about the way he used to look at Matt a little too long, to wonder if Matt knew.
The cold settles in. The sound of the van, of the road, of everything, dulls to nothing.
And Mello lets go.
â
March 18th, 2:37 AM
It never stops.
The anger. The fire. The gnawing, choking, all-consuming need to tear something apart just to feel like thereâs anything left inside that isnât broken. It rises and rises, never peaking, never fallingâjust an endless, rotting tide of fury, swallowing everything in its path. Hands shake, jaw clenches, breath comes too fast, too sharp, like every nerve is screaming for war. And for what?
Nothing is happening. Nothing is wrong. Nothing except everything.
Teeth grind so hard they ache, fists curl so tight the nails cut into flesh, and still, itâs not enough. It should be. It should be. But the pressure builds anyway, a storm behind the ribs, black and roiling and starving for release. Maybe a punch through the wall would help. Maybe throwing something, shattering something, making something hurt the way this always does.
Or maybe not. Maybe it wouldnât make a damn bit of difference. It never does.
And thatâs the worst part. The exhaustion beneath the rage, the weight of knowing exactly how this ends every single time. Always the same useless cycleâfire, destruction, regret, repeat. And yet, stopping isnât an option. There is no stopping, no slowing, no control, only the spiraling mess of it all. The heat behind the eyes, the way the throat tightens, the way frustration twists into something dangerously close to despair.
Pathetic. Weak. Enough.
But it wonât be. Not ever. Because this is all there is. All thereâs ever been.
The idea of being alive is utterly terrifying.
âMentally ill.â A phrase that suggests disease of the mind. Is it accurate to label those who simply refuse to lie to themselves about the purpose of their existence as such? And what of those whose behaviors do not fall within the boundaries of a good citizen? When it is said that there is disorder of the personality, it is assumed that there is a correct order of the personality, but by whose standards? One might argue for a higher-power, and others might agree upon a communal sense of morality that âjust is,â but it has not always been so. Throughout history, governments, gods, and masters have taught its people how to act in such ways that serve to keep the current state of affairsâ to keep the power. There is no such thing as right or wrong acts. Good and bad do not exist, but rather are something we decide upon out of self-interest. If something is good for ourselves, we welcome it. If something is bad for ourselves, we run from it.
The master who convinces his followers that submitting to the masterâs views of right and wrong is the most beneficial path for themselves is the master who without any work obtains true power. The followers believe they make their own choiceâ that they think for themselves in deciding what is right and wrong, and that they act in self-interest. In reality, these followers do not think for themselves. They have been nurtured and molded according to what the master wants, but they do not question their role in the system because they truly believe that following the authority is what best serves them.
And what consists of treatment? What of the individuals who observe the machine and refuse to accept it? We look down upon them and are afraid. They are known as strange, criminals, mentally-ill, and we lock them up in prisons and hospitals. They are seen as dangerous because they do not respect the laws those in power have put into place. We put them on drugs. We rehabilitate them. And if they continue to refuse to assimilate even somewhat into the machine, they will not be allowed to walk freely as an individual, but will forever be watched under the scrutiny of the system who tells them that something is wrong with them. Is treatment no more than a mere means to push a deviation back underneath societyâs scope of normalcy?
I am not advocating for murder or other heinous acts, but upon speaking with a new counselor and expressing to her my awareness of the meaningless of existence if I cannot form connections with others and rationalizing that living a life of suffering and working for the machine is not worth it, being sent the dsm depression criteria and asked to send her my number does not feel like even she considers questions to be valid; it is rather something to be dismissed as she contemplates my treatment and how to fit me back into being a happy and willing participant in the system.
YOSHIDA BROTHERS â Kodo
âMost of us are gifted with the ability to see the monsters hidden within another, but are unable to see past them. It takes a special kind of person to see the light inside of every living being.â
â Lynette Simeone (via quotemadness)
happiness is fleeting and anguish stains.
@melloweek- Day 4/Free. I wanna eliminate my competition.
adolescence
Mello was dumbfounded when he heard the rosary beads hit the floor. His blue eyes turned icy.
A gloved hand reached for Mattâs throat, pushing him back on the couch. The movement was painful with his fresh wounds, but he didnât care. Hell, he couldnât really feel much as adrenaline had the tendency to act as a painkiller.
âJust what the fuck is your problem?! If you donât care about this, then you can go! No oneâs holding you hostage.â
He eyed him closer.
âAre you on drugs right now?â
adolescence
Grunting, he fell on his back. Hands cuffed around Mattâs arms and he rolled them over while digging his knee into his thigh. A laugh let out. âSince you made me drop my chocolate, I think itâs your turn to eat some,â he said, reaching for the candy bar.
âOooh you gonna waste that on me when youâre not gonna get another one for a week. You like me or something, fag?â
Fight, shit talk something, he wanted to keep it going, the rolling and the contact felt so good with the body high.
If only any of the non-autistic girls at Wammyâs liked him. He could whine.
âYou like me or something, fag?â
Mello went on the defensive to hide whatever emotion was quelling in his eyes.
He took his chocolate and shoved the entire thing in Mattâs mouth, and then got off of him.
âNo!â he said too adamantly. âI donât! I donât even like you as a friend!â His eyes were glassy.
This time, his voice was weaker.
âIâm not a fag.â
Matt was more confused than he had ever been in his life, and his altered state of mind played a role in that. He thought strange things for another 30 minutes, fell asleep, could hardly remember the details when he woke up. He was more confused. He couldnât remember Mello ever reacting in that way before. Heâd never seen Mello hurt before, see Mello flee rather than fight. He could never figure it out no matter how hard he racked his brain. What could make Mello respond like that? What could cut his facade away so smoothly?
10 years later the memory came back, he was on the raggedy couch in the squat he shared with Mello, watching Japanese horror to the accompiament of LSD, feeling the same things he felt then, the same body high. It had become a trigger, he had come to be reminded of that memory every time he dropped. As if on cue this time the blond walked in. Mind clearly on either Kira or Near, the man in desperate need of relaxation that he would probably only allow himself to indulge in for a short few minutes.
Switching his gaze between Matt and the television, it only took him a moment before he was sitting down next to his friend. As predicted, he was quiet for only a few seconds before...
âWe need to make a move. Nearâs already planning on confronting Kira and weâve done nothing but listen to Amane and itâs gotten us nowhere. I donât want to waste any more fucking time.â
adolescence
Grunting, he fell on his back. Hands cuffed around Mattâs arms and he rolled them over while digging his knee into his thigh. A laugh let out. âSince you made me drop my chocolate, I think itâs your turn to eat some,â he said, reaching for the candy bar.
âOooh you gonna waste that on me when youâre not gonna get another one for a week. You like me or something, fag?â
Fight, shit talk something, he wanted to keep it going, the rolling and the contact felt so good with the body high.
If only any of the non-autistic girls at Wammyâs liked him. He could whine.
âYou like me or something, fag?â
Mello went on the defensive to hide whatever emotion was quelling in his eyes.
He took his chocolate and shoved the entire thing in Mattâs mouth, and then got off of him.
âNo!â he said too adamantly. âI donât! I donât even like you as a friend!â His eyes were glassy.
This time, his voice was weaker.
âIâm not a fag.â
adolescence
Grunting, he fell on his back. Hands cuffed around Mattâs arms and he rolled them over while digging his knee into his thigh. A laugh let out. âSince you made me drop my chocolate, I think itâs your turn to eat some,â he said, reaching for the candy bar.
adolescence
Mello was preoccupied with other thoughts. Â
âWhy do they always tell me to participate? Near doesnât, and nobody bothers him.â
At least he didnât move away, despite ignoring whatever Matt was saying.
âIf they give the autistic kid special treatment, itâs an unfair advantage. Being on the spectrum has nothing to do with succeeding L. Itâs not about social interaction. Itâs about being the most logical and he shouldnât be receiving any more allowances than me⊠And /I/ shouldnât be receiving more restrictions than him.â
There were other factors Mello knew he could have taken into consideration, such as how he threw mashed potatoes in another studentâs face last week.Â
âFucking ridiculous.âÂ
Side eye. â⊠The fuckâs wrong with you?âÂ
âMnnâ
His enlarged pupils made him look like a machine receiving information via dial-up.
âYouâre right, if you wanna be L you gotta get socially stunted. And you are, but not in an L way.â
The urge to giggle was becoming out of control and the resulting smile was way too big for his face.
âYou look so sourâ
He sadistically reached for Melloâs exposed abdomen.
Mello blinked and furrowed his brow.
âWh- Thatâs not even what I- Whâwhat? Ah!â
He jumped, reflexively curling his legs into himself and rolling onto his sideâ ironically he moved towards Matt.
A look. âAre you high?â And a knee prodded at Mattâs hip.
âNo. Iâm tripping.â
He rubbed himself against the soft comforter.
âIâm right though.â
âYouâre not.â
He watched him, eyes studying the otherâs expressions. Possibly he was trying to find some giveaway for what ran through the altered tracks of his friendâs mind. Mello came up empty-handed.
Matt laughed with a faux goofiness, like Mello had made a dumb childish joke.
âNo youâre not.â
He was talking about tripping of course. He reached over his head and grabbed a box wedged between the bed and the wall.
âProbablyâd make you a little smarter.â
He said that matter of factly, no malice in his voice; he didnât think of it as an insult, and he meant it. He opened the box and handed Mello a stolen Tesco bar before scouring in search of something else.
Mello was brilliant, and yet so incredibly myopic that sometimes Matt wasnât sure that the brilliance even mattered. The boy was completely controlled by an unhealthy desperation to win a contest that their caretakers had expressly invented to manipulate them. He had become obsessed to the point of rigidity, every second word out of his mouth: âNear.â If not for that Matt might have never fully noticed that the kid existed. Near was a setting sort of person and Matt was thoroughly disengaged from the hoops and dog treats of Wammyâs pet projects.
Actually, Matt really, really liked Mello, but kid was royally fucked up by a combination of various sorts abuse and apathetic neglect.
Not that Matt had ever been in a situation without some sort of abuse and neglect, nor was he sure one existed.
Either way Mello had a tendency to kill his vibe by being annoying, and Matt never censored himself, sober or not. He was pretty incapable of that at his current level of maturity and no one expected anything else from him.
He rummaged through a bottle of crusty cough syrup, baggies of neglected moldy weed, keys, delicate tools, a bag containing a folded nearly-full sheet of lsd, a pair of Tammy Girl knickers, 2 or 3 of Rogerâs cigars passed by for a wimpy box of cigarettes.
The lighter would be a struggle.
He took the chocolate and smiled at him.
âYouâre sure as hell not in any position to tell me what would make me smarter.â He didnât care. Even if Matt was right, he didnât want to hear it. At least not right now.
Sitting up, he broke off one of the little squares of chocolate to plop in his mouth, following it up with another square thrown at Mattâs face.
âCigarettes will kill you,â he said. âUnless I do first.â
Vegan Hot Chocolate Mix